Paige is a cast member of my improv group Pangea and she is getting rave reviews for her role in the play “I Gelosi.”

For you fans of the podcast, Paige is the woman with the hot voice who does each episode’s intro and outro.

This article — which is fantastic — was written by friend and loyal reader Soren Bowie.

I was drinking cut-rate Mexican beer at the outdoor bar of a Flamenco dinner theater in Hollywood when a friend introduced me to a striking blonde. The three of us spoke for several minutes. Our mutual friend then wisely excused himself.

We had a good conversation. There was a lot of agreeing, which was a positive sign, because I am usually right. I mentally checked through my list of turn-ons and turn-offs. She wasn’t a smoker – good. She wasn’t impossibly shy – good. She looked good in jeans – good. I saw a level of compatibility. I’m not saying I heard wedding bells, but I did think, “Here is someone I enjoy talking to.”

Then it happened.

It always happens in conversations.

But this time it really happened. In fact, it’s still happening in my head weeks later, which is why I feel compelled to write about it.

A break in the conversation occurred – a moment of silence. There was a natural pause that gave both of us a chance to appraise the future of our short relationship.

When such a break occurs, I have learned that one of four things is about to happen.

1. Both parties smile, relax and resume the conversation. By doing this you send a signal. You’re saying, “I want to be here. I could have excused myself to go to the bathroom or left you to order another cut-rate Mexican beer or gone off to make sure my car tires were still properly aligned, but I didn’t. I stayed. I like you.”

2. One person comments on the silence. This is risky. You either come off looking very lame or very cool. It’s exactly like owning a Vespa.

(Above: The Vespa — a knife that cuts both ways.)

3. Both parties look in the opposite direction and slowly pivot their bodies away from each other and pretend they never met. I perfected this maneuver in high school. It is sad the way the guy who goes to the grocery store after work to buy one can of Foster’s is sad. That’s like Level-3 Sad on the Sad 5-Scale.

4. One or both parties politely excuse themselves.

It turns out there is another option.

You also can mumble something, put your head down and bowl across the restaurant with the speed and determination of Minnesota Vikings running back Adrian Peterson. I didn’t know this was one of the options until that night at Flamenco dinner theater bar. I would advise against this option because every time I see the blonde Adrian Peterson I will think, “That’s the girl who ran 35 yards through the heart of the restaurant’s defense during the first break of our first conversation.”

(Above: The real Adrian Peterson runs away from a conversation with Vikings quarterback Tarvaris Jackson.)

Could she have had a bathroom emergency? It’s possible, but not likely. I saw her later and if she was not feeling well, her illness did not send her home and it did not show. The real sin – in my book – was that when we crossed paths the second time she did not acknowledge her awkward exit. She pretended it did not happen, ignoring the fart in our conversational elevator.

If she had said “Sorry about before but I really had to bust a wiz,” I would have laughed and remembered her forever as a superior brand of woman. That kind of honesty is rare and awesome and fun. Just once I’d like to hear a girl excuse herself for five minutes, come back and say, “I wouldn’t go in the women’s room for the next 35 to 45 minutes” and then make an exploding-bomb noise.

These are my fantasies.

I have problems.

Peaceful Warrior release

Dearest Mike,

I would just like to formally apologize for my hurtful comments and sour insinuations regarding both your method of eating In-N-Out burgers and your span of knowledge of English-language vocabulary (or lack thereof). You have been my best friend for over 12 years now, and I felt it was time to be undeviatingly honest with you. In retrospect it may have been best to have kept those said comments to myself.

As I listened to the four of you gorge yourselves on In-N-Out burgers, my delicate ears were abruptly polluted by the nauseating cacophony of your smacking lips and mouths. It resembled a feeding frenzy of a pack of ravenous wolves as they descended upon an innocent collection of adorable baby chickens and sweet, appealing white rabbits. I came perilously close to vomiting my gourmet ramen lunch. I demand that you publicly apologize for this transgression.

One smacking mouth sound particularly irked me, and I naturally assumed it was you, Mike. As both my best friend and having actually lived with you, I know that you have the revolting habit of eating with your mouth as wide open as your fly after draining your hairy Italian lizard (unfortunately, yes, I have seen it before).

You skillfully dodged my accusation; however, I think your explanation that you turned off your microphone as you greedily feasted on In-N-Out is a crock of festering shit. But I’ll be the bigger man (literally) and apologize anyways … you fuckin’ open-mouth-eating pansy. Knowing that In-N-Out isn’t available in Japan, you ate it during your podcast just to spite me. You also did it to devilishly tease that charitable vessel-of-the-angels guest of yours (Phil Ranta). That just goes to show how much of an asshole you are.

I also want to apologize for pointing out that you constantly misuse English vocabulary. Having spent the last four and a half years in Japan, I will humbly admit that I have lost about 50% of my former knowledge of English. Nevertheless, I still retain enough of my native language to know that when it comes to any word over three syllables, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Just ask Joe. Now there’s a smart guy that knows what he’s talking about. Joe - could you please explain the meaning of the word “plight” to Mister Mike Constantly-burping-tini?

Well, I guess that’s it. I’m truly sorry from the bottom of my heart, you crybaby bitch.

Love,
Dave

P.S. So since I technically apologized, we’re cool now … right, Mike? Cuz I still need a place to crash when I’m visiting LA. I can’t stay at my parents’ house anymore because you STOLE MY DAD from me. Oh, and if you break his heart, I’ll kill you.

Finally, mail-order chocolate anus. Thanks to reader Sarah B. for passing this on and special thanks to Belgium for being so perverted.